


Bedtime Stories

by eloquated



Series: Unexpectedly Wonderful [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, Gen, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Parentlock, Sherlock is a Good Parent, sibling feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 16:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: One date gone awry.Two Holmes brothers.Three kids needing a bedtime story.Or, how 'The Hobbit' reminds Sherlock that he loves his big brother.(You don't need to have read the other parts for this to make sense.)





	Bedtime Stories

**Author's Note:**

> So I was sort of thinking that I was going to take a break for this weekend, hopefully recharge a little of my inspiration!
> 
> And then this thing jumped into my head, and I had a little time, so of course I had to write it! I just needed some Mycroft & Sherlock fluff!
> 
> (That's the muses, for you... never a dull moment!)

Well, as far as dates went?  That had been the worst. A disaster of missed cabs and pushy fans, and getting caught in the rain, and the most terrible food either of them had ever eaten (and they’d both survived university cafeterias).  

It was so terrible, in fact, that both of them were laughing quietly when they pushed open the door to 221B, because there was very little else they could do!

“You go check on Mycroft and the kids, and I’m going to get a shower.”  Molly announced as soon as the door had closed behind them, her sticky fingers plucking gingerly at a smear on her dress, still sticky with chocolate and some kind of raspberry sauce that she was sure could double for adhesive, in a pinch.  She was equally sure it probably tasted lovely, had their waiter not accidentally toppled over with the whole dish. Onto her.

Sherlock nodded ruefully, and leaned over to kiss her forehead affectionately, his expression still lilted with amusement, “For the best.  You might start to attract flies.” 

“And I already have you, and four kids.  I don’t know if I need any more pests!”

With a mock wounded expression, Sherlock turned his cheeky partner towards the bathroom with a little push, his fingers lingering for a moment against the warm dip at the base of her spine.  It had been the sort of night that, even a few years ago, would have left him owly and out of sorts for days.

Now, he had someone to share the ridiculousness, and that made it easier to bear.  With a smile for his own emotional development, Sherlock shrugged off his sodden coat and hung it by the door to dry.  

Molly, had turned the flat into home (even though it had meant relocating some of his more volatile experiments to 221C), and helped him fill it with the most wonderful children in the world.  Not that he was biased, of course. It was simply math. 

The next generation of Holmes were, quite simply, the most brilliant, beautiful, and talented children in the northern hemisphere.  And possibly the rest of the world as well. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest!

Still uncomfortably damp, Sherlock quietly peeked into his own bedroom without turning on the light.  From the doorway, he could see Marian asleep in her crib, one hand tucked serenely under her pink-flushed cheek.  A veteran of three older siblings, Marian could sleep through most rackets, but Sherlock never wanted to take the chance.  Her dark hair, in cherub curls, was just long enough to fall across her forehead, and her father had to resist the urge to brush his fingers over them.

Best not to, not when she was so peacefully asleep.  It was amazing how quickly a sweet, sleeping baby could turn into a cranky, over-tired little monster!

Erring on the side of caution, Sherlock pulled the door shut and continued down the hallway, where he could hear the low, quiet hum of his brother’s voice.

“Then Smaug really did laugh—a devastating sound which shook Bilbo to the floor, while far up in the tunnel the dwarves huddled together and imagined that the hobbit had come to a sudden and a nasty end…”  Mycroft’s voice echoed faintly around the edge of the opened door, just a touch louder than the splash of water from behind the closed bathroom door.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up as he approached quietly, careful to weave around the creaking parts of the floor.  Edging closer, he peeked around the frame, and caught sight of Ariadne’s crib, and the end of Tristan’s bed (though there was no sign of the little boy beneath the blue and green blanket).  

He remembered this story, the words woven into the fabric of his childhood and sparking happy memories.  The weather had been foul for days, and Sherlock had been in a complete strop, restless and miserable with being trapped indoors, and just getting over a beastly cold.  

Grown-up Sherlock’s expression softened at the recollection.  Of Mycroft scooping him against his chest when his little brother had invaded his bedroom, and flipped back to the first chapter of the book he’d been reading.

Dragons and adventure had turned out to be a good tonic for an unhappy little boy.

For a moment, Sherlock waited in the doorway, until his brother stopped for a breath.  With his best dragon-laugh, he plunged into the bedroom (and oh, Molly would give him that long-suffering look for winding the children up before bed.  But Sherlock knew she’d be trying just as hard not to laugh!)

“My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath _ death! _ ”

Ollie sat bolt upright, and Tristan gasped, turning his face into his uncle’s chest with a squeak.  But it was Ariadne that leaped to her feet, fearless in the face of the daddy-dragon, and leaped over Mycroft’s legs with an energetic cry.  “Daddy!” She beamed, jumping once on the edge of Ollie’s bed for momentum, before she launched herself into the air and trusted Sherlock would catch her.

He did.

He  _ always _ did.

“Congratulations, brother mine.  Clearly you’ve missed your true calling-- you make an excellent fire breathing reptile.”

“I learned from the best!”

Mycroft chuckled under his breath, one light hand passing over Tristan’s ginger curls, until the little boy peeked up with a sheepish grin.  

“Daddy, come listen?”  He offered, and scrunched in close to his uncle, trying to make room for yet another person on Ollie’s already crowded bed.  Tristan was sure that there should be a rule against his little sister being braver than he was, but Ari just never seemed afraid of anything!

“I’ve already heard my brother read this story once.  It was quite enough.” Sherlock shook his head, and shifted his hysterically giggling little girl more comfortably again his hip.  At two, she was growing like a weed, and getting heavier by the day; still soft and babyish for now, but he had to wonder just how tall she was going to be!

“Phhbfffftt!”  Ariadne grinned, and swung her pajamaed feet against her daddy’s side, the fuzzy fabric covered in frogs, and formerly Tristan’s, “Daddy silly!  Daddy no have  _ brother _ .  My has brother.” She insistent, and pointed to Tristan and Ollie, who were clearly trying, and failing, not to laugh.

Sherlock chuckled and kissed the top of her curly head, “I don’t?  Then who was reading you a story?”

Ari rolled her blue eyes up at him, but ‘allowed’ the kiss.  “Uncle Mycie!” She chirped, and her expression was very clearly, ‘ _ You’re smarter than this, daddy. Use your brains!’ _  It was a look Sherlock had seen more than a few times in the mirror; and much more recently, on Ollie’s face!

The daddy in question chose to ignore the British Government, and the next generation of Holmes men, snickering away quietly to the left.  No, that would really only encourage them! “And Uncle Mycie is my big brother, just as Ollie and Tristan are yours.” He explained, and navigated around a few treacherous, foot-catching toys to tuck her into bed.

She didn’t look convinced.

“Daddy.”  Instead of laying down nicely, Ari popped right back up, her little hands gripping the edge of her crib railing, “Uncle Mycie no  _ kid _ .  Daddy no kid!”  

“Not anymore, Ariadne. But we were, a very-”  Mycroft began to explain.

“For one of us, very  _ exceptionally- _ ”

“You’re not helping, brother mine.  But yes. A very long time ago. Of course, your father was a nightmare then, as well.”

“Younger brother’s prerogative, Mycie!”

With all of the Holmes’ curiousity, three pairs of bright blue eyes fixed on the adults; a sure sign that this wouldn’t be the end of the conversation!  Shaking his head, Mycroft extracted himself from his nephews and chivvied Tristan over to his own bed. “You see? Quite impossible. Now, I believe it’s bedtime, before your Mummy thinks I’m letting you run roughshod over the rules.”

Ollie, trying to prove that he was, in fact, the oldest and most responsible, (which usually lasted just as long as Mycroft was babysitting, or his parents asked especially nicely) set his glasses on his nightstand and slid down under the covers.  Tristan did the same, following his lead and letting his uncle tuck the blankets around him.

Ari, on the other hand?

“No!  No  _ sleep _ .  Story.”  She demanded decisively from behind her crib bars, sounding a little breathless as she wriggled and squirmed, evading Sherlock’s best efforts to lay her down.

“Your daddy can read it to you tomorrow, Ariadne.  The book isn’t going anywhere.” 

“No!”

“She’s right, Uncle Mycie…”  Ollie piped up, unaware of how unhelpful that comment would be!  “Daddy won’t do the voices.” He paused a beat, and looked up at Sherlock with both dark eyebrows raised high, “Will you?”

With a half smile, Mycroft leaned over and helped Sherlock coax Ariadne down under her blanket, ignoring the sulky, borderline mutinous look she turned on them.  “You heard his Smaug-voice, Ollie. If he can be a dragon, surely he can be a Hobbit. Or a Dwarf. Likely better than I can. But you will find out in the morning-- for now, it’s bedtime.”

Sherlock wanted to believe that it was just sibling rivalry, and the chance to show his brother up, that made his chest feel warm.  It had nothing to do with the praise.

Nothing.

When all three children had been hugged and kissed-- and hugged and kissed again, for good measure-- Mycroft held the door and the brothers slipped back out into the narrow hallway.  “You’re home early, and soaked through, brother mine. It looks like you’ve had quite the eventful evening.”

“Mycroft--”  Sherlock’s voice caught and surprised him; and apparently Mycroft as well, from the way his brother paused, hand outstretched to grab his own jacket from the stand.  “It’s.. Early. As you said. You could… In fact… Unless, of course, you have to get back to whatever  _ pressing _ business you have waiting for you at home--”

Sherlock could feel the dry, prickling feeling at the back of his throat, and Mycroft looked as surprised by the offer as he felt about making it!  It hadn’t been planned, and God knew there was no particular reason for him to stay. He’d been willing to watch his nieces and nephews for a few hours, and now the evening had been cut rather short--

Only, Sherlock didn’t actually want him to leave.

Out of the frying pan, came in the form of Molly Hooper; smiling warmly and scrubbing a towel over her still wet hair.  Her dress had been traded for a pair of pajamas, and one of Sherlock’s robes with the cuffs pushed back. She looked soft and scrubbed pink, and Sherlock very much wanted to pull her into his lap to see if she smelled as sweet as she looked.

_ Ahem _ .  

Not that he would be doing any of that with his brother around!

And certainly not after she threw him into the fire with a cheeky, “Mycroft, hello!  Sorry about Sherlock, he’s clearly forgotten the words, ‘would you like to stay for tea?’.  And you should. We had a miserable night, and we’d love your company. I hope the children weren’t too much trouble?”

“No.. no.  None, they were fine...“

With that, the two confused (and privately, not unhappy) Holmes boys were tucked on the couch to wait for the kettle to boil.  

What had ever happened to the demure, obedient English rose, Sherlock wondered?  Between Molly, Mary, and his  _ mother _ , he was never going to have a moment of peace!  And now, of course, they’d taught their wily ways to his daughters.

It was much easier to have a good grouse about the state of English womanhood than to acknowledge his brother sitting, equally out of his depth, on the couch beside him.  And it wasn’t as thought he’d given a toss about the subject before… But now seemed like a good time to start!

After all, he hadn’t been entirely sure he wanted to spend the evening with his brother.

He hadn’t!

Just as Mycroft had probably been about to finish grabbing his coat, with a convenient excuse.

Right?

“So, Molly…”  Mycroft coughed awkwardly to clear his throat when she returned to the living room, balancing three cups of tea and a plate of biscuits in her hands.  It looked like she’d already taken a bite of one, from the stray crumb clinging to her lower lip. “Ariadne was having some difficulty believing that Sherlock was my brother.”

Sherlock didn’t blame her, he was starving, too.

With the rattle of mugs, Molly set the tea down on the table, and proceeded to tug over one of the armchairs.  The deep blue fabric of her purloined robe fanned out around her as she settled in with a little bounce, bare feet tucked up beside her.  “I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s two, and still trying to figure out how families work. She met both my sisters-- I mean, she’s met them before, but she doesn’t really remember, and never at the same time-- um, last week?”

Sherlock nodded in confirmation, and leaned over to scoop up a generous handful of Ginger Nuts, and his tea.  It was hardly a proper meal, but after the night he’d had? It entirely the adult thing to have cookies for dinner.  

Besides, he doubted either of them could be arsed to cook.  So it was cookies, or take-away. And the cookies were closer.

“And with the three of us looking the same, she was completely confused.  Suddenly there were three Mummy’s, and two of them weren’t quite right! Besides..”  Molly smiled over the lip of her mug, and snuggled down into the worn armchair, “She’s still trying to wrap her mind around the idea of adults being real people.  Not just her personal servants.”

“Indeed… A phase some people never outgrow.”  Mycroft drawled, and cocked an eyebrow when his own baby brother retaliated by tapping biscuit crumbs into his tea.  “Charming, Lock. Living up to your Smaug, I see?”

Which started a conversation about children’s literature.  And the effect of reading on mental development. 

By the time Mycroft and Molly were on their second cup of tea, and had worked their way through to Silverstein and Seuss, Sherlock’s eyes were growing heavy.  He hardly noticed when their voices softened. 

Only that his brother’s was low and calm, wrapped around the familiar words in the same tone he’d used to lull him to sleep as a child.  And little by little, Sherlock began to sink sideways on the couch. With eyes closed, he let the sound of their voices wash over him.

“He used to love Winnie-the-Pooh as a child.  He’d set up his toys in the nursery and pretend they were on their way to the Hundred Acre Wood.  Of course, growing up in Hartfield…”

“It  _ is _ sort of the perfect place to make-believe being Christopher Robin.”

Sherlock hadn’t intended to use his brother’s thigh as a pillow.  But Mycroft was warm, and oddly comfortable, once he stopped being so tense.  His hands smelled of ginger and the faint, faded tang of soap; and just a touch of cigarette smoke, if he breathed in very deeply.  That hadn’t been there when they were children.

And that was alright, he decided sleepily.  Because they weren’t children anymore.

But just for now, for this moment, he could drift on the gentle hesitation of Mycroft’s fingers smoothing his curls.  And the sound of Molly’s voice lilting with the laughter he loved.

“I think he’s kipped out.  I guess he was more tired than he thought.”  

“Would you mind passing me that blanket on the back of your chair, Molly?  He…”

“Always gets cold when he’s asleep.  Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?  Really, it wouldn’t be any trouble to set up the spare bed downstairs.  And it’s getting so late…”

“No, thank you.  I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“But it wouldn’t be!  Really, I hate the idea of you going back to your house all alone.  Especially-”

“Molly, I’m quite fine. I’ll call a cab, and it isn’t far.  You needn’t worry about me.”

Had Sherlock been awake, it was hard to say whose side he would have taken.  

But at that particular moment he was fast asleep, dreaming of the stories he’d heard as a child.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This series is just my domesticity happy place, I hope you're enjoying it! 💕


End file.
